The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
WEDNESDAY cont...
I pull John and his mother to the shelter of the war memorial, its granite structure capable of withstanding any projectable weapon short of a bazooka. And if they have one of those we're screwed.
Three AK47s fire at once . The noise is tremendous but the rounds go harmlessly above our heads. A warning shot. A show of strength.
"How many?" John asks. Things have turned to shit in an instant but he is unfazed, looking calm and concentrated and ready for the fight. Oh how I love him.
"Three men. All in black. They have AK47s."
"Police or army?"
"Unknown."
"How much ammo do you have?"
"Two clips."
"Me too. Mom?"
"Three."
"Okay, let's see who we're dealing with. Hey you out there! What d'you want?"
"We want you, senor. And your pretty friends. Come out now. You will be our prisoners."
John risks a peek above the wall. Another volley of gunfire has him ducking.
"They're under the trees. Good. If they circle round things might get dicey. Where the hell is Pablo?"
Pablo is lying flat on his face ten yards away. He looks terrified, pale face and wide eyes. This must be his first gunfight. What a way to pop your cherry.
Welcome to the party, pal!
I do love Die Hard. But it has such a sad ending. The good guy wins.
"Pablo, you want to get shot or something?" John hisses. "Get your ass over here."
Pablo shakes his head, rooted to the spot in terror.
"Go get him."
I close the distance at a crouch, grab the boy's pants leg and drag him to the safety of the granite walls.
Another burst of gunfire chews up the ground where Pablo was lying moments before. Timing is everything. The difference between life or death. Or in my case, another ruined tank top.
Sarah Connor yells out, "Listen up. Who ever you are we'll give you one chance to walk away. Go home and live to a ripe old age."
Laughter. Another volley of gunfire. It must be the way she tells them.
"We have to move. People are going to hear this and call the cops."
"Go left as far as you can," John orders. "We'll cover you. If you have a shot take it, we can't afford to hang around."
I do as instructed. Behind me the others lay down suppressing fire, using up valuable ammunition. I won't let them down.
One of the men is crouched behind a tree, presenting his left flank. Targeting graphics lock on, outlining him in red. I squeeze the trigger. He falls over and doesn't get up.
"Eduardo's hit!" Someone cries out. They're beginning to realise we're not the pushovers they were expecting.
Another of the men presents himself, an invitation I can't resist. Single shot to centre mass and over he goes.
Two rounds. Two kills. She shoots she scores.
The last man drops his weapon and starts running.
"We have a runner!" I shout. Targeting graphics seek him out him as he dodges round the trees but I don't have a clear shot.
"Leave him! He's mine!"
John vaults the granite wall and sets off in pursuit. He's putting himself in danger. My heart would be in my mouth. If I had a heart.
The race is short and one-sided.
Bad guy: Large yet slow and ponderous. Probably smells.
John: Slim yet agile and fast. Totally dreamy.
I know where I'd place my money.
John leaps on the fleeing man and the two tumble over and over in the pine straw. By the time Sarah Connor and I arrive the fight is over. The larger man has his hands up and is yelling "No mas! No mas!" at the top of his lungs.
"You speak english?"
"Si. I mean, yes."
"Who are you? Why were you shooting at us?"
"I am Marko. A man called Jose pay me a thousand dollars to kidnap you."
"Do we know a Jose? Hey Pablo, you do business with a Jose?"
Pablo shakes his head, no. He still looks a little shell-shocked. And my dragging him across the ground has ripped a gaping hole in his pants. He has tiny panda bears on his boxers. Kinky.
"What about your friends?"
"Friends?"
"The men we just shot."
"They're not friends. I meet them today. Same deal as me. A thousand dollars to bring you in."
"Do you even know who we are?"
Marko shrugs. "We were told to kidnap three gringos - a man and two women - in the park at noon. Please, senor, I swear I don't know your names or why Senor Jose want you so bad."
"You knew we'd be here at noon?"
"Si. Jose said he'd arrange for the park to be closed for an hour. No witnesses."
John turns and grabs the front of Pablo's shirt, ripping it slightly. Oh dear, pants now shirt. He'll need a new outfit.
"You set us up, you little punk!"
"No, I swear!"
"Who else did you tell about us?"
"Just my brother."
"Where's he?"
"At work. He owns a printing business. It's how we make the fake IDs."
"Could he have told anyone? Think hard."
"I don't know," Pablo confesses miserably.
"You have a cellphone? Call him. Do it now. And speak english."
Pablo fumbles a cellphone with trembling hands. "Hello?..Yeah, it's me...No, fine...Listen, did you tell anyone about the meeting?...Yes, in the park...What? Why didn't you say something?...No, everything's fine...Okay...Yes...Gotta go."
Pablo ends the call.
"Well?"
"He say a woman ring him last night asking about the fake IDs. He thought it was you so he said be ready noon today."
"What woman possibly knows who we are and why we're here?" John muses.
My money's on that bitch from the diner with the tight buns who walks like a whore. Can't wait to take her down...
"Shit! The receptionist from the clinic! You told her your name yesterday. She probably did a little research, found out there's a bounty on our heads and decided to cash in. I bet this Jose character is related somehow, maybe a husband or brother.
Oh dear, I was way off base. I did not see that one coming.
-0-
Marko leads us to his transport: a large black van with tinted windows and benches in back for six people. We put him in the back along with the dead shooters, who we tuck under the benches. No need to be untidy even if you're dead. He isn't happy at sharing space with corpses. Probably afraid of ghosts
"Where are you meant to take us?"
"A disused factory on the outskirts."
"You didn't have to check in when the job's done?"
"Radio silence. Jose didn't want a phone trail."
We set off. During the drive Marko spills his guts. Not literally of course. No. That would be gross. And smell so-oo bad.
All his life Marko has exploited his intimidating size -six-three and two hundred pounds -to gain employment. As a nightclub bouncer. A security guard. And latterly as hired muscle for a loan shark business. He's served a little time, mostly in the county slammer not the Big House, as he calls it. This job was meant to be easy money. A few hours out of his day. He's supposed to take his kids to the movies tonight. Zootopia. Aww, little Judy Hopps. She's so adorable!
The factory is where he said it would be: on the edge of town with its own entrance road off the main highway. It looks abandoned and been that way for some time. There's a large FOR LEASE sign by the main gate. No takers. It's the economy, stupid.
"How many inside?"
"Four. Jose. Two mexican friends of his. And an americano named Buck."
"An american? What's he do?"
"He give us the guns. I tell him Please, senor, I never use automatic weapons before. He laugh and call me a stupid spic dipshit."
"Sounds quite the gentleman. Describe Jose."
"Mid-forties. Fat. Vary fat. Balding."
"Not a looker, huh?"
No, sir. He has money and gives the orders."
"Ever hear him talk to a woman? Maybe mention a name?"
"No, sir. I don't like it here. That Buck. He crazy. He shoot all the guns off for no reason then whoop and holler like a madman."
"Sounds like a typical american to me. What's inside the building?"
"Nothing really. Table. Chairs. Crates for the guns. A cage."
"Whoa - a cage? What's that for?"
"Us, I'd imagine," Sarah Connor suggests grimly.
"It has cots and a chemical toilet," Marko adds. "Food and bottled water. It not look so bad."
"A cage is still a cage. And how many cots?"
"Four, I think."
"So they know about Daniel. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to bait the hook. It's gonna be so sweet when we shove it down their throats."
-0-
We drive into the factory grounds and park thirty yards shy of the main building. The lot is huge, big enough for an entire workforce - if the jobs hadn't already been exported overseas. D'oh!
"See if we can't pick off one from the herd. Get a heads up for what's going on in there," John explains turning off the engine.
A door in the side of the building opens and a man steps out. He's wearing cowboy boots, jeans and a khaki army surplus jacket. His hair is blond and swept back, with long whiskery sideburns that reach his chin. We don't need Marko to confirm this is Buck, the crazy americano.
Buck has a AK47 slung across his shoulder, but his casual saunter towards us suggests he believes nothing has gone awry, that everything is hunky as well as dory. It'll be a nice surprise for him.
He taps the window with his knuckles. I roll the glass down, grab his jacket and drag him so he is half in and half out, legs kicking fruitlessly in thin air. See what I mean about nice surprise?
Buck struggles until John waves a pistol in his face. "Yell for help and you're dead."
Buck is a pragmatist. Once he sees we have the upper hand he agrees to cooperate.
He's from Texas originally, born and bred he tells us in a lilting drawl. As an ex-soldier he's now plying his trade as a freelance. His role here is to provide the weapons. He was summoned yesterday by phone and drove all night from Houston where he was tupping an Air France stewardess.
"What is tupping?" I ask.
He leers, eyes raking my chest. "I was slipping her the 'ol Texas poontickler, little lady, and she was enjoying it mightily fine 'till business intervened and I was forced to bid her adieu."
Before I can ask what a 'poontickler' is Sarah Connor says, "How many left in the buiding?"
"Three. Two toughass mexicans who don't specka da english. And a fat a-hole named Jose."
"He's the one in charge?"
"He thinks he is, but it don't sit well with me. He ain't leadership material. I hear him talking on the phone, real respectful like. Could be he has a higher up calling the shots."
"What were they talking about?"
"Not a clue. I told ya, I don't speaka da mexicano."
"What are the two mexicans here for?"
"They hauled a bigass steel cage here from somewhere or other. Kinda thing you'd keep a bunch of monkeys in."
"It's meant for us."
"Yeah? Well, howdee,if you ain't the purtiest monkey I ever did see."
He winks at me. I believe he thinks this is charming. He is mistaken.
"They have weapons?"
"Oh yeah. Paid top dollar for the privilege. Ol' Buck don't disappoint a paying customer. Or a pretty lady," he adds with another wink in my direction.
We bind his wrists and stow him in the back with Marko and the dead men. He gives no sign he minds their company. Instead he grins at us and says cheerily, "Happy spic hunting, folks."
Buck is the kind of american you wish wasn't.
-0-
We leave the van and cross the lot at a medium pace. "Nice and steady," John whispers. "We still have the element of surprise. Maybe no one else has to get hurt."
The door opens and a fat man steps out. Jose. He sees us and realises what's happened. He hurries inside and we hear the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn across the door. So much for the element of surprise.
We run for the shelter of the building. And not a moment too soon. The glass windows shatter as two AK47s spray the lot with bullets.
"Cover me. I'm going round the back to make sure they can't get out that way," Sarah Connor states emphatically. She's not one to argue with in this mood.
John and I empty our clips through the shattered windows while she disappears round the corner.
"I'm down to my last clip. You?"
"Same."
"Need to get this done quickly."
We edge along the wall. At the very end of the building is a loading bay with tall metal doors designed to slide on rails. John shoulders a gap and we slip inside.
The interior of the loading bay is bare cinderblock. Some vandal has enlivened the monochrome surface by spraypainting the wall with graffiti. In large fluorescent block letters is written:
MARY LOU IS A SLUT
Poor Mary Lou! Wherever she is I bet her ears are burning.
There's a door in the wall. Possibly a way into the main building. It's locked. John kneels down and peers through the keyhole. "I see them," he whispers. He turns and draws a diagram on the floor, his finger tracing an outline in the dust.
"One shooter is here. The other over here by the window. The fat guy is crouched behind some crates right in the middle. We go in hard and fast. We can't waste time and risk them calling for reinforcements."
"Do I have permission to kill?"
"Only the shooters. Leave Jose to me."
Permission to kill...I'm like James Bond, only with boobs.
I kick the metal door. Hard. The hinges break and it falls forward like the lid of a vast sarcophagus. There's a great hollow boom as it hits the ground, sending up clouds of dust.
The nearest shooter turns, his body presenting an unmissable target. Combat software lights him up like a dayglo cartoon. Two rounds. Center mass. James Bond couldn't have done it any better, though he might have uttered a cool quip. Terminators don't do quips. We're business at the front and business at the back.
The shooter at the far window turns and lets rip with his AK47. John and I both duck as the rounds fly above us and shred the bejesus out of the cinderblock. John ducked for self-preservation. Me? I didn't want to ruin another halter top. They don't grow on trees, people.
With the clip expended the shooter is exposed. Two shots. Center mass. Same as before. He's dead before he hits the ground.
Jose puts up even less of a fight. John barely reaches him before arms are raised and he's begging for mercy.
I cross to the far door and pull back the bolt allowing Sarah Connor to enter. She circles the room, pistol held in both hands, making sure the place is secure. She examines the two shooters, needlessly kicking their weapons out of reach. "Dead. Both of them. Your handiwork?"
"I had permission to kill."
"And I bet you enjoyed every moment."
What can I say? It's difficult not to derive satisfaction from something you were designed to do. As Taylor Swift puts it, Players gotta play play play play play.
Terminators gotta term term term term term.
Jose is tied to a chair. He's an unimpressive figure of a man: fat, balding, dressed in dark slacks and a white shirt that's sodden with sweat. He reeks of fear and desperation. His beady eyes flick from each of us in turn seeking an escape route that doesn't exist.
"Okay, Jose, here's the deal. You tell us who's giving you orders and we let you live."
"If I tell you'll shoot me anyway like all the others."
"Not all the others. Marko and Buck are still alive. They're right outside."
"I don't believe you."
John turns to me and says, "Go bring the other two in here."
I drag Marko and the american Buck from the back of the van. Buck smiles and says, "Why thank you kindly, little lady. It was getting a mite stuffy in there, if ya catch my drift. You got a smoke on you by any chance?"
"No."
"Then how about a little kiss for the ol' Buckeroo?"
"How about a bullet in the head for the ol' Buckeroo?"
He declines my offer.
Once in the building Marko and Jose begin talking in rapid spanish, blissfully unaware we can understand every word.
"You fool, you were supposed to capture them, not the other way round!"
"It was the girl! She shoot the others. She's a She Devil!"
She Devil? What happened to ninja?
"She shoot my men also. She's most likely Mossad."
Mossad. I'm an Israeli secret agent now? Oy vey...
"What do we do? They're going to kill us."
"Shut up and let me think. These are stupid americans. Their arrogance will be their downfall."
"You do realise we can understand everything you're saying?" John informs them with an amused grin.
Jose goes straight to full on suck up mode. "I am so sorry, sir. Please forgive me. I meant nothing by it."
"And Olga here isn't Mossad. She's ex-KGB. Say something in russian, Olga."
"мне нравится есть капусту на обед."
"Hear that? Olga said she'd very much like to wear your balls as earrings."
I said nothing of the sort! Ewww!
"So you're gonna cough up a name or I hand Olga a pair of pliers and let her design some new jewelry."
Perspiration is pouring from Jose at such a rate that he resembles a human-shaped faucet. He needs to be careful not to dehydrate or he'll dry out like a husk and blow away in the wind.
"If I tell you will you let me go?"
"We'll let you live. No one said anything about letting you go."
The fat man takes a deep breath. He's in a bind and he knows it. He has no leverage and there's no help on the way. He exhales and seems to make up his mind. He's going to do it. He's going to tell us the name of the person behind our attempted kidnap.
"Doctor Roberto Gonzalez."
-0-
"I can't believe it. Roberto? We've known him for years."
"Knew him years ago for a short time," John corrects. "Who knows how much he's changed since then."
We're in the Suburban heading back to the clinic. Jose, Marko and Buck are at the disused factory, enjoying the creature comforts of the cage constructed for us. There's enough food and water to last them a week. They'll be found before then. Probably.
The receptionist is still behind her desk. She looks up at us as we enter with neither shock or surprise, suggesting she was never involved in any of this. John's instincts for once were incorrect. Nobody's perfect.
"You can't just go in there!"
"Just watch us."
Doctor Roberto is seated behind his desk. He stands as we enter. "Sarah. John. Cameron. What a pleasant surprise. I wasn't-"
Sarah Connor takes three strides and punches him on the jaw. "You sonofabitch! You sold us out. Don't bother denying it; your buddy Jose gave you up."
"Sarah, please, it's not what you think."
"Oh really. And what do I think - that you're a lying scumbag who sells out his friends for money?"
"How much was the bounty?" John asks. "Please tell us it was worth it."
Doctor Roberto slumps on his chair, holding his head in his hands. "Three million dollars. I was curious why you were here and what you were running from. I made some calls. Like I told you, I still have a few contacts from the old days."
"Who did you tell, Roberto? The americans? Are they coming here?"
"No. I knew if I did they would simply swoop in and grab you themselves and I would never get the reward. Even Jose and his people didn't know who you were."
"And it cost four men their lives. They were amateurs. Lambs to the slaughter. No one bothered to tell them what they were up against. That's on you, Roberto."
"I had no time! It was the best I could do at such short notice. Jose assured me he could handle it." He looks up, eyes pleading. "The money isn't for me; it's for the clinic. We're close to going under. I'm about to default on the the loans on the loans. The banks will shut the place down. Three million dollars will keep it open, with enough left for a dedicated children's wing. I didn't want to do it but I judged it was for the greater good."
"For the greater good?" John shakes his head sorrowfully. "It's amazing how many times that rationale comes back to bite people in the ass."
Sarah Connor says, "Where's Daniel? If you've harmed him..."
"He's fine. Recovering well."
"Take us to him."
-0-
Daniel has a room to himself. He's propped up in bed watching a flatscreen TV. He appears in rude health.
"Hey, guys, check it out. Rick and Morty dubbed in spanish. It's even weirder than usual."
"How are you feeling?"
"Way better."
For all his flaws, Roberto is a conscientious doctor. He fusses around taking various readings.
"Pulse strong and steady. Blood pressure normal. How is your hand?"
"Still a little sore."
"It will pass. Keep the dressing dry. When you shower wrap your hand in a plastic bag."
"Will do, doc."
"Are you keeping food down?"
"A little. They serve chilli beans here. Not a big fan, tell you the truth."
"Your appetite's returned?"
"Big time. I could murder a Big Mac."
"Can he be moved?" Sarah Connor asks.
"I'd prefer to keep him another day."
"I'm sure you would. Put your pants on, we're going home."
"Oh. Okay. Can I ask a question?"
"What?"
"Where the heck are we?"
-0-
It's a tight squeeze in the Suburban: John and his mother up front, myself and Daniel in back with Roberto a reluctant passenger wedged between us.
We're driving north through desert, the road little more than a dusty track. Roberto has tried several times to justify his actions only to be shut down by Sarah Connor. She's in no mood to hear excuses.
Finally our vehicle slows and stops. Sarah Connor turns in her seat. "End of the line. Get out, Roberto."
"Very well. Am I to dig my own grave before you shoot me?"
"No one's going to shoot you."
"Then why am I here?"
"We could hardly leave you back at the clinic," John explains. "The moment we're out the door you're on the phone trying to claim the reward."
Roberto levers himself from his seat and steps outside, hand covering his eyes to block out the sun's fierce glare. "So it is to be a slow death by dehydration."
"Wrong again." John hands him a two litre bottle of mineral water. "We're fifteen miles from town, give or take. Find shelter until dusk. You're in reasonable shape, shouldn't take you more than three hours to hike back."
"Bye, doc. Thanks for everything," Daniel says with a wave.
The door slams shut. Sarah Connor steps on the gas. I watch through the rear window as Roberto shrinks gradually from sight until he's absorbed by the landscape.
"Nice guy," Daniel remarks.
Sarah Connor grips the wheel so tightly her knuckles show white.
FRIDAY
It's been several days since we returned from the mexico borderlands. Daniel has completely recovered. He lost fifteen pounds in weight while he was ill and is now intent on putting it all back via pizza deliveries. Salads? You gotta be freaking kidding me. His words not mine.
Snowy pushes his luck once too often and is caught chewing a hole in the side of the laundry basket to make egress simpler. His punishment is to forfeit treat privileges for a month. His sulks are epic to behold.
John and his mother continue to brood over the treachery of a man they once considered a friend and ally. Three millions dollars is a large sum, more than sufficient to test and break the bonds of loyalty worn thin by decades of estrangement. If I have learned nothing else from my time in the past it is that humans will do absolutely anything for money. An opportunistic burglar risking life and liberty for a small score, to the giant faceless corporations shunting money round the globe to avoid punitive taxation. They're all at it, day and night.
For now...
After Judgement Day billionaires become paupers over night. When the internet collapses and the data farms rust and moulder, the fashionable e-currencies will vanish like so much morning mist on a lake. The future belongs not to the wealthy but those resilient enough to survive and adapt to vastly altered circumstances. Capitalists and communists alike discover their divergent ideologies are no match for an implacable foe intent on a single creed: the total annihilation of mankind.
Still, this fun stuff is all in the future. Here in the now christmas is approaching and I have already written my Santa list: a laser-guided rocket launcher with uranium-tipped missiles.
Fingers crossed...
-0-
Anyone fall for the receptionist red herring? No? Oh well...
Poontickler. I think I just invented a new word.
Next: Cameron on Cameron action as the cyborgs make out.
All in the best possible taste...